


Rainbow Lights

by Shachaai



Series: APH Olympics [10]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M, Rio 2016 Summer Olympics, team uniforms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-24 00:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20016922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: England finds Portugal in the crowds at the closing ceremony, both of them slicked with confetti and rain.





	Rainbow Lights

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from my tumblr. This was originally written at the time of the 2016 Olympics in Brazil.
> 
> The Rio Olympic Closing Ceremony saw a lot of rain; the Portuguese upped their ‘casual denims’ look to level 90s Boyband, and the British and Northern Irish turned up wearing pastel spotty short shorts and shoes that flashed red, white and blue (that wouldn’t stop flashing).  
> Some of the conversation here will probably make more sense if you read _[Opening](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20011870)_ first. Occasional use of the word ‘fuck.’

At its end, the Closing Ceremony turns into a carnival - complete with every type of costume Brazilians can dream of: sparkling, shining, ruffled, spiky, golden chains held on by sweet dreams and a prayer. The music is too loud to hear and the rain pours down on them all alike, and there are rainbows in the air caused by the stadium’s lights shining through the haze of water, making everything brighter, louder, more fantastically surreal as everyone moves in to party and laugh, chatter and dance.

England leaves the impromptu conga line that has started up behind the athletes’ seats, breaking away from the British and Americans who are grabbing anyone who comes too close to them and making them join in. His spot in the line is almost immediately filled with a mixed group of laughing athletes from both sets of the Virgin Islands, England ducking under gesturing arms and around some determinedly shaking arses to get away. His shoes won’t stop flashing, quicker than his steps - red, white, blue -; he can see all his and his brother’s peoples as multicoloured stars moving through the crowds.

The crowds swell the nearer England gets to their centre, chaos teeming ever closer. A large group a crowd of people wearing the mixed colours of Jamaica, Haiti and the Dominican Republic (and probably a few others) are bouncing on the spot with two headbanging(?) Brazilian volunteers who look for all the world like giant green fluffy sprouts, and, nearby, England can spy his fellow nations, Poland and the Czech Republic, very determinedly having a dance-off. They’re hemmed in by Slovakia and Lithuania (who don’t know whether to laugh or despair), someone dressed as something orange and spiky, and two women who look like a box of ruffles has exploded to make their clothes.

England catches blue denim at the corner of his eye, his gaze hooked before his head has thought about it. Portugal, dressed in the overly casual _damn_ denim - _again_ -, is dancing with Timor-Leste, the girl’s hands in his hands as he spins her, rainbow lights catching on their earrings, the buttons and zippers on their clothes, bright flowers in her hair shedding petals everywhere. The Philippines and Cambodia swoop in to steal the girl as England approaches them, though it takes some time as he must smile and step away with a shaken head at two Bahamian women who try to grab his hands to get him to dance with them on the way, elbows jostling with athletes from Moldova who can’t seem to get the sole umbrella they have between them open.

There is glittering, fluttering, tinsel confetti being showered down on the crowds now, grabbed with gleeful hands and sticking to skin slick with rain. Portugal is shaking his head, trying to get the confetti and his curls out of his eyes, when England grabs the lapels of his denim jacket with a grin, pressed up tight against Portugal’s body by a surge of delighted Somalis at his back (or are they Israeli? England glimpses only white and blue and stars, a swell of humanity moving under tinsels and rainbows and rain and lights). His mouth moves hard against Portugal’s ear, no air between for outside noise to steal away his words.

“You’re doing this just to _spite_ me.”

Portugal laughs at him, his chest shaking under England’s knuckles, against England’s ribs. He ducks his head, his hair sliding forwards in a chilled _slither_ against the bare skin inside England’s jacket’s collar, and England shivers up against the warm breath against his own ear, Portugal’s hands settling firmly over his hips. “Inglaterra, can I _really_ be blamed for your denim-kink?”

 _“I’m_ blaming you,” England informs him darkly, and Portugal snorts behind his ear, either attempting to nuzzle into England’s neck or use England’s skin to rub off the ticklish raindrops rolling down his nose. One of his legs moves between England’s legs, steadying England’s body when one of the Somalis/Israelis accidentally pushes into England’s back, and the denim of his jeans - and all the miles of hard muscle _under_ it - _rubs_ distractingly against England’s bare calves.

“Of _course_ you are,” Portugal says - loud, the both of them are loud, and were the people and music around them not louder the world could hear the frank _filth_ Portugal nurtures in his mouth. “Add it to my _multitude_ of sins, under carnal and venial -”

England pushes his hand up between them, raking back half his fringe from his face, dark blond furrows that set in the rain. “Fuck _venial.”_

Portugal reads England’s lips - his eyes are dark; his grin shows teeth that glint in the lights. “I think that is where the _carnal_ comes in?” England shoves his palm in Portugal’s _face,_ catching the wretch’s nose punishingly between two fingers and turning his face aside. “You’re being so mean to me, when _I_ have nothing but compliments for _your_ outfit!”

“Like hell you do.” England moves his hand, slides the palm over Portugal’s chin and throat so he can feel the swell of the other Nation’s Adam’s Apple, watch Portugal’s grinning mouth move between his fingers.

“I do _so,”_ Portugal insists. “Your shoes are very cool, and your shorts are very -”

“Short?”

 _“Cute,”_ says Portugal, and there is no way he could have heard England’s snort above the music but he must recognise the expression on England’s face all the same. “I was going to say cute! I like them very much.” His hands all over England’s waist - and _lower,_ England is belatedly realising, fingers sliding around over pastel and spots - agree. “I should like a pair in my bedroom even more.”

England squints at him, rain catching in his eyelashes. “I can’t tell if you genuinely want these items in your wardrobe or if you’re just trying to undress me.”

“Yes,” Portugal laughs, and slides his hand quite smugly in one of England’s back-pockets.

England can still feel the rub of Portugal’s denim everywhere he himself has bare skin. “So that’s -”

 _“Yes,”_ Portugal says again, pushes his face against England’s hand and down until the rain rolling down his face drops on England’s cheeks like he’s imparting little secrets in the rainbow mist of his breath: “You can have my denim in exchange, since it gets you so hot.”

“Oh, _fuck_ your _sodding denim -”_


End file.
